


A Terrible, Beautiful Cruelty

by irrevocably-johnlocked (AurielleDawn)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurielleDawn/pseuds/irrevocably-johnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So much blood.  Dear god, there’s so much blood.  </p><p>I have never, never been concerned about blood, to the extent that most people find my indifference quite alarming.  But this blood is John’s.  John’s life leaking onto the pavement, and that makes this blood suddenly the focal point of my existence.  </p><p>***</p><p>John is gravely wounded.  Sherlock wrestles with unfamiliar emotions.  Molly gets to be awesome.  Written in the five minutes I actually liked Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Terrible, Beautiful Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on the knife's edge, after my first viewing of The Empty Hearse, when I was angry with Sherlock and needed him to understand what he'd done to John. It is therefore Mary-friendly and John/Sherlock emotional but platonic. I like it, anyway. Probably the only time you'll see me write Mary favorably. Might appeal to Sherlollies.
> 
> Note that I'm changing my pseud on my Johnlock fic so tumblr followers can find me.

So much blood. Dear god, there’s so much blood. 

I have never, never been concerned about blood, to the extent that most people find my indifference quite alarming. But this blood is John’s. John’s life leaking onto the pavement, and that makes _this_ blood suddenly the focal point of my existence. My ears still buzzing from the shot, the footsteps of the two criminals ringing through the alley as they run, John’s breath ragged as he begins to lose consciousness, I tear off my scarf, pressing it to the wound, and I take inventory. 

_Abdominal wound. Left side. Too far up to have hit the stomach. Confirmed by the lack of foul odor and color that accompanies a stomach wound. Too low to have hit the heart. Primary danger: loss of blood._ I continue to apply pressure to the wound as I consider our options. _Closest hospital: St. Bart’s. Transportation: call an ambulance. 15 minutes out and back. Too long. Discard. Taxi._ I glance around the alley and make a mental calculation. _8.5 minutes in current traffic, with the correct route. Taxis frequent on the road to our left._ Right.

I have to run the risk of releasing pressure on the wound in order to move him, but there is no time for hesitation. I pick John up and run for the road, where a taxi is miraculously heading towards us. I stand in the road, forcing him to stop, and yell for help with the door. As I bundle John into the car, reapplying pressure, the driver jumps back into his seat, mumbling about blood on his upholstery. “St. Barts!” I yell, “And I’ll pay for any damage. An extra 200 pounds if you have us there in 8 minutes. I tell him which route to take, checking John’s pulse, adjusting the pressure to the wound. “Do you have a mobile?” I ask the cabby, and when he answers in the affirmative, I instruct him to call the hospital and tell them to be ready. “Tell them it’s Dr. John Watson and that he’s suffering from a gunshot wound.” I wait a moment to be sure he’s following my instructions, then pull out my mobile with my the hand not applying pressure to John’s wound and hit the speed dial. I breathe deeply, forcing myself to be calm.

“Mary,” I say, trying to sound normal, in control. I apparently fail.

“Sherlock, what is it? What’s happened?” I can hear her gathering her things already, the jingle of her keys, the close of a door.

“John has been injured.” I say this as calmly as possible. “Meet us at St. Barts.”

“Sherlock, is he alright?” Her voice is most insistent than panicked, and I admire her in that moment.

I can’t bring myself to lie, so I simply tell the truth. “I will take care of him, Mary. Just meet us.” I hang up, so she won’t try to keep me on the phone while driving, increasing the probability of an accident in her now agitated state. I scan the traffic ahead and give the driver a change in directions. _4 minutes._

John’s breathing is even, his pulse slightly faint. Blood is coating my scarf, and I use the edge of John’s jacket to redouble my makeshift bandage. I call Lestrade, next. I tell him what has happened and where he will find the shooter and his accomplice, based on my deductions regarding their likely behavior after fleeing the scene of the shooting. “We’re on it, Sherlock,” Lestrade promises, and then he’s gone. I put my phone in my pocket and hold John against me. _1 minute._

“You’re going to be alright, John. You will not die on me. Do you hear me?” I say these things and more, very quietly, insistently to my friend, as I stare at the bloodstains and check his pulse again. _20 seconds._

I’m poised when we screech into St. Bart’s. The door flies open, and I lift John up, as other hands grab him and pull him onto a gurney, and still more take over the application of pressure to the wound. I follow quickly after them, ensuring they know his name, that the bullet did not exit, any details they may need. Then they pull away from me, and I am told to wait. I stand for a moment, hands clenched, breathing roughly. And then Molly is there. “Sherlock,” she says, grabbing my arms. I look at her, hardly seeing. I recognize the symptoms of shock and briefly wonder where a shock blanket is when you need one. I have the absurd desire to laugh. Molly stares at my face and repeats my name. “Sherlock. They called me up when John’s name came in. What happened?” 

“Gunshot wound,” I respond, numbly, staring down at myself. Molly is grasping my arms above the elbow, and below I am covered in blood, as is the rest of my coat and likely my clothing. Somehow, this snaps me out of it, and I blink, looking up to meet Molly’s eyes, back in control of myself. 

“Molly, Mary is on her way, and I don’t want her to see me like this. Will you wait for her while I clean up? Please?” She nods, says _Of course,_ points me towards the nearest washroom. I begin to turn away, then pause, reaching into my trouser pocket. My wallet is damp, and I try not to think about that. “And, Molly, can you pay the taxi for me?” I hand her everything in my wallet, smearing the bills with blood, and she nods, _Of course._ Good, solid Molly. Always there in a crisis. 

In the washroom, I do a quick assessment. My coat, trousers and suit jacket have sustained the most damage, but the suit is mercifully black. My shirt is also dark and mostly unstained, although there is blood around the cuffs. I quickly strip out of my coat and jacket, washing my hands, and then wash them again. I use the coat to scrub at the blood on my trousers, absorbing the worse of it, so the stain is not as noticeable. I roll up my shirtsleeves and wash my hands and arms again. When I am convinced my appearance is not overly alarming, I bundle my jacket into my coat, carefully folding the coat so the blood is concealed and laying it over my arm, before walking out to meet Mary.

I round the corner and can see Mary, gripping Molly’s arms and asking urgent questions while Molly shakes her head. Molly won’t have anything to tell her beyond the most basic – that they’ve rushed John into surgery, that he was shot. Molly glances up at me, and Mary turns. I am generally very good at giving nothing away, but I seem to be failing miserably at this today. Mary takes one look at me and visibly steels herself. Tough as nails, our Mary is. She takes a breath to ask, and then Molly is there, “I’ve found out where you can wait. Here, come on.” She puts her hand on Mary’s shoulder and leads her quickly away, looking back to make sure I’m following. And of course I am. Where else would I go?

When we reach the waiting room, Molly hugs Mary and says quite earnestly, “Everything’s going to be alright, Mary. St. Barts’ll do right by John.” Mary hugs her back and smiles briefly. “I know they will, Molly. Thank you.” Molly walks to me, and I make a slight motion with the arm holding my coat, asking the favor with my eyes. Molly nods and takes the coat and jacket from me, bundling them up under one arm so the bloodstains stay hidden. Then she reaches up and grabs the nape of my neck with her other hand, standing to her full height and looking me in the eyes. “It’s going to be alright, Sherlock,” she whispers fervently. I nod over the lump in my throat and lean down to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you, Molly Hooper. You are a good friend.” And she smiles at me then, a real smile, and I’m glad of it. Then she is gone, and it’s just Mary and I. 

Mary closes the distance between us and takes my hand, leading me to the benches and pulling me down beside her. “Tell me,” she orders. And so I do. “We were chasing a bank robber. It was a rather ingenious robbery, actually. He—“ And then I stop myself, knowing this isn’t what she wants to know. I swallow and squeeze my eyes shut briefly. When I open them, I meet Mary’s eyes. It is the least I can do, to look at her while I confess what I’ve done. “I had deduced that he would—“ I stop again. _Bragging,_ says John’s voice in my head. “I figured out where we would find him,” I say instead, “And John and I went alone.” _My fault._ “The robber had an accomplice, and there was a struggle. While John was subduing the other man, the robber pulled out a gun and was about to shoot me. John dove between us.” My voice chokes at the last, my eyes filling. 

“How bad?” She whispers, and I swallow, clearing my throat, eyes locked on the floor. “The bullet entered his abdomen and did not exit. Judging from the color and odor of the blood, it missed the vital organs. I got him here in precisely 9 minutes from the moment of the shooting, but he had lost a considerable amount of blood in that time. I made sure they were waiting for us, and they rushed him immediately into surgery when we arrived.” I look up at her, and she is nodding absently, eyes distant, the nurse in her calculating damage and odds. 

A nurse arrives then, urgent, all business, wearing scrubs. “John Watson?” he asks, walking quickly to us. Mary and I both stand, chorusing, “Yes?” The nurse glances from one to the other of us and settles on Mary, “He’s in surgery now to remove the bullet. He’s lost a considerable amount of blood, which we are striving to replace. Once the surgery is over, it will simply be a matter of waiting to see if he is able to rally.” Mary asks a series of technical questions, letting him know that she’s a nurse and can both understand and handle real answers. She nods and thanks him, as do I, and we return to our bench. 

_Waiting to see._

The feeling in my chest is agonizing and unfamiliar. I have been afraid for John’s life before, but always in a moment, when there was action to be taken, when I could focus on being clever enough to save him – to save us – or be resigned that we would both die together. I think of the pool, seeing him strapped with explosives, realizing that I cared, desperately. That I could not let him be harmed. A thousand moments where we have been in danger and gotten one another out. But never this waiting. Never this agonizing knowledge that I cannot be clever or quick enough to change this. That John may be dying in the other room, and my genius can do nothing to save him.

I think of the rooftop, then. Of Moriarty’s threat. Of the pain of saying goodbye to John, even knowing I would see him again. Of the catch in his voice when I told him the call was my note, and he said, “No.” Of him standing over my grave, asking me to not be dead. I become vaguely aware that I’m crying, as I picture John’s struggle for breath in the restaurant, and my realization that I had no idea what I had put him through. I understand, suddenly, that this hopeless, impotent pain must be what John felt when he believed me dead. And oh, dear God, I do not deserve to be called anyone’s friend. 

All of this in a moment, elbows on my knees and staring at the floor tiles. When I turn to Mary, my face is wet. “I am so deeply sorry, Mary,” I choke out. “This is all, entirely my fault.” I run a hand through my hair, desperately. I don’t know what to do with what I’m feeling. I can’t work through how to manage it. 

I steady myself and continue. “Please believe that I would change places with John in an instant if it were within my power.” I break off. I have no idea how to apologize for what I’ve done. If there is a right thing to say in this moment, I do not know it. 

Mary’s face, already wet with tears, crumples a bit, and she says, “Oh, Sherlock.” She reaches over to take my face between her hands and leans towards me. “John loves you,” she says, fervently. “He will always, _always,_ ” her voice cracks and fresh tears well from her eyes, “jump in front of a bullet for you.” She breathes deeply for a moment, steadying herself and searching my eyes; for what, I do not know. “And you will do the same for him,” she finishes with certainty. “That is what people who love each other do.” 

She pulls me into her arms, then, and although I have never been one to seek physical comfort from another, I find that I desperately need it. Mary buries her face in my neck, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and I press my face to her temple, one hand behind her back and the other going to her hair. She breaks down, then, all the toughness evaporating as she sobs against my neck, and I hold her tightly, our tears mingling on my tailored shirt. And I vow to myself that no matter what happens, I will see Mary safe, always. 

When we are able to compose ourselves, we take turns going to splash water on our faces, one of us in the waiting room at all times. I broach the subject of calling Mrs. Hudson, but I’m not certain I can bear it. I am quite certain that I will lose patience with her grief, and Mary blessedly agrees that it’s best not to worry her. I am pacing and quite composed by the time Lestrade shows up, a slight redness to my eyes the only sign that I’ve given way to emotion. 

He hugs Mary and holds his hand out to me, and I simply stare, face neutral, an eyebrow raised, hands joined behind my back. I cannot bear another comforting touch at the moment. He drops his hand and sighs. “We found them,” he says. “Right where you said they’d be.” 

“And are they in custody?” I ask. It never does to assume that competency has been displayed. One is so often disappointed. 

“The accomplice is,” he states, and I glare at him with a clenched jaw and angry outtake of breath. He grins at this. “Shooter’s dead,” he says, glancing at Mary and then back at me. “Seems he…brandished his weapon.” There a slight tightening around his eyes at the last, and mine widen almost imperceptibly. I nod slightly, and now I do hold out my hand. “Thank you, Inspector Lestrade. The people of London appreciate your thorough investment in their safety.” He takes my hand, and I grasp his firmly, nodding with a grim quirk of my lips when he meets my gaze. He nods back, and this is enough. He asks us to keep him updated, and he goes. 

Mary steps over to me, staring after him, a grim, almost defiant look on her face. She threads her arm through mine, and I put my hand on top of hers where it rests on my arm. We stand like that for a moment, and then she says, “Right. Well, that’s done.” We return to the bench and continue our waiting. A nurse comes to say that John is out of surgery and we will be able to see him soon. Mary squeezes my hand, and we share a cautious smile. “Tell me how you and John met,” she says. “He’s told me before, but I suspect your version will be more interesting.” I smile in earnest then, glancing over at her with a small laugh. 

And I tell her. I tell her about the lab and the walking stick, Mrs. Hudson and the second bedroom and the denial about being my date (both of which makes her laugh, and I’m glad), about the chase and the cabbie, the shot and the shock blanket, and she snorts a bit at my imitation of myself. “That was the first time John saved my life,” I conclude, and when I look at her, she’s smiling, and there’s pride in her eyes. “Bit different from the version on the blog,” she comments. I raise my eyebrows, my face going neutral and one corner of my mouth turning up in what John calls my _cat in the cream grin._ “Well, of course there’s always the _official_ version. And then there’s what really happened.” She stares at me a moment longer, eyes slightly narrowed, an amused quirk to her lips. I blink at her innocently, and she smiles in earnest, shaking her head. 

“Tell me about ripping his clothes off in the darkened pool,” she suggests, cheekily, “That part’s not exactly in the blog, either.” I huff out a quiet laugh and then sober, shaking my head. “I can’t,” I say. “Not right now. I was…terrified for him, and it’s too—“ She nods, taking my hand again. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I understand. Want to hear how John failed to impress my parents the first time I took him ‘round?” And she tells me, and Mary’s stories are surprisingly _not_ tedious. And now I’m laughing, and it occurs to me that I’ve never laughed with anyone but John before. I’ve laughed at other people, with some frequency and generally mirthlessly. But it’s not the same, is it, as laughing with a friend?

They finally come to tell Mary she can see him. _Family only, Mrs. Watson,_ they say, and she takes my hand and says, “ _We_ are his family,” in a tone that brokers no argument. My mouth quirks slightly and I remember John chinning the Chief Superintendent. Of all the things I have expected in my life, loyalty was not one of them. 

We sit by John’s side, Mary and I, for hours. She murmurs to John. I quietly pace. Molly brings us food and coffee. I eventually do call Mrs. Hudson, but I assure her that John is resting peacefully and that there’s no reason for her to come to the hospital. It’s still a waiting game, however. The surgery went well, and he should recover, but nothing is certain. The doctor says that my getting him to the hospital so quickly surely saved his life thus far, and I am immensely thankful that I could do that much. 

Endless hours later, John wakes. It’s a small intake of breath at first, and I move to the bed, touching Mary’s shoulder where she’s dozing. She looks at me and over at John, and then she’s leaning over the bed, holding his hand and talking to him. He says her name and opens his eyes, grimacing slightly, still groggy and unfocused. “Sherlock?” he asks, weakly. “Is Sherlock—“ Mary answers him, “Sherlock is fine, love. He’s right here.” She moves slightly to make room, and I step to the side of the bed, feeling awkward and entirely inadequate to the situation. John raises his other hand slightly, and I take it. He struggles to focus on me and says, “You alright?” I smile and reply, “I’m quite alright, John. It seems I have a best friend willing to take a bullet for me.” 

“Bloody right,” he mumbles, giving my hand a weak squeeze and releasing it. He holds tight to Mary and drifts back to sleep, as the doctor enters the room to check his vital signs. “He should be out of the woods now,” he says. “He’ll just need to rest and heal.” Mary looks at me with a watery smile, which I return with one of my own. It seems I will not be losing my best friend after all. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Dear God, but having feelings is horrendous. A terrible, beautiful cruelty. I wonder earnestly if there is some way to switch them off.


End file.
